


Evening: Time To Get Away

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: A Question Of Balance [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spanking, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's had a rough day, and Sam is... available.</p><p>Spanking as a metaphor for something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening: Time To Get Away

_February 1, 2000_

Dean can’t help the anxiety as he drives back to the apartment, the stress of the day crowding in around him, making the breathing come harder and angrier. He’s calmed down some since he got in his baby and drove away, sure. Who wouldn’t? But he still hasn’t really cooled off, not to the point where he can sit back, relax, close his eyes. He drums his fingers on the dash nervously, trying to hum along to the music. But it isn’t coming, not tonight. It isn’t enough.

He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, trying to burn off some of the nervous energy, and it helps some. But he knows what else would help. Maybe. Or if that doesn’t work out he could go out again, take his Walkman and _Appetite for Destruction_ and run until it got better. That’s just Plan B though. Always have a Plan B, especially with something like this. He knows the drill.

He slams the door shut as he strides in, and Sam, sitting on the sofa in the front room, jumps. He’s got a disassembled semi on the table, on top of some ratty towels stolen from another hotel, and from the look of it he’s been cleaning guns for a couple of hours.

Dean lets his gaze travel over the scene. Sam’s in an oil-stained white tee and old, ripped jeans, because somehow he can never manage the guns without getting grease and lubricant everywhere. He looks tired and cranky in a way that hasn’t changed in years.

“Sam, what do you think you’re doing?” he asks sharply.

Sam gives a heavy sigh. “Dad told me I couldn’t have the money to pay my lab fees until next week,” he says, longsuffering. “I told him that I needed it tomorrow, because my biology teacher’s already about to give me detention. And he said that it wasn’t his priority and if I mouthed off anymore I’d be cleaning the guns.”

Dean brushes aside the explanation, pretends Sam hasn't said anything. "Guns are dangerous, Sammy. What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he asks.

Sam frowns, then his eyes flash with comprehension. "I--I don't know," he says, shrinking away from Dean's scowling face and crossed arms. "I just wanted to look at them, and..."

Yahtzee. "Guns aren't toys, Sam," Dean barks. "They're weapons. You can't just fool around with them or someone's going to get hurt. Now unless you can give me a damn good reason for this, I'm going to have to spank you." He's giving Sam an opportunity to change his mind, to repeat himself, to say "no."

Sam blushes at that, a shade of pink that on Sam is cute enough to eat, but wouldn't do Dean any favors. He squirms uncomfortably in his seat, places the dirty rag carefully on the coffee table. "'M sorry, Dean," he mumbles. "I guess I just wasn't thinking."

"Well, I guess I'm just going to have to give you something to think about next time," Dean replies, and he sits down on the couch, waves Sam over.

Sam stands reluctantly, dragging his feet on the few paces that bring him to Dean. He looks up at his older brother with warm, wet eyes.

Dean lets his gaze travel over Sam’s thin frame, taking in the grimy clothes, the hands twitching nervously at his sides, settling on the trembling lower lip. He's going to get dirty if he takes the kid over his knee right now. But that's not the important thing.

"Guns are dangerous, Sammy," he repeats, "and if one of them malfunctioned, or you didn't use it right, you'd have a lot more to worry about than a spanking. If I ever catch you with another gun, I'll take my belt to you." He watches as Sam starts visibly. He'd never use a belt on his brother. He'd never want to give up the feeling of his hands on Sam's ass and they both know it. "But this is the first time, so I guess we can go easy on you."

He moves his hands to the button of Sam's jeans, undoing it and pulling the zipper down. These are older pants, and they're too small for Sam since his last growth spurt. He tugs carefully at the sides, fingers brushing against the sharp hipbones as he works the denim down to Sam's knees. Sam doesn't make a sound, doesn't try to stop him until Dean reaches for his underwear.

He shies away, hands leaping to protect his crotch, and he makes a frightened choking noise in the back of his throat. "Please, no," he begs. "Dean, no, please don't. Not like that...." He's not looking Dean in the eye anymore, and his blush has deepened to a brilliant shade of red.

Dean takes Sam's hands and holds them, looks up into his brother's face. "You've earned yourself a bare-bottomed spanking, Sammy," he says gently, his voice and his actions belying the harshness of his words. "I'm going to spank you so hard you never even think about touching a gun. Ever. And if you don't cooperate, I'll spank you again every night for a week."

Sam nods slowly. He trusts Dean. He knows Dean would never really hurt him, never really upset him.

"Good boy," Dean praises him, releasing Sam's hands and turning his attention back to the boxer-briefs. He peels them down to join the jeans around Sam's knees, and Sam's erection becomes glaringly obvious.

Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't reach out and touch his little brother. The moment doesn't seem long to him, but he can tell in Sam's eyes that it's agony. So he takes Sam's upper arm, guides the kid gently over his lap.

"Why are you getting this spanking, Sammy?" he asks, just like always, and he can tell that their routine is relaxing Sam.

His voice is steady when he replies. "Because I was handling guns without permission," Sam confesses. "It was stupid and dangerous and someone could have gotten hurt."

"That's right," Dean agrees. "This is serious, Sammy, and you've earned yourself a serious spanking."

He looks down at Sam’s pale ass, which is fitting just right over his knee. His hand lands in a firm, measured slap. He’s pacing himself, because this isn’t going to be over with quickly. He’s going to take his time about it, watch every handprint bloom a dull pink over the perfect skin. That’s a major benefit to this kind of punishment, he knows: the impact is immediate and obvious. It’s good to know he’s not wasting his time.

He always uses the same progression when he spanks Sam, because in his mind, if it ain’t broke, you don’t fix it. So he slaps first one cheek, then the next. There’s more force behind the swats, more deliberation than he usually uses, but he’s also spanking slowly enough to give Sam time to recover. Honestly, there are a few things Dean’s just damn good at, naturally, and practice has made him near-perfect. Shooting. Hustling pool. Spanking his brother: left cheek, right cheek, down a little lower the next time.

And suddenly Dean realizes that while he’s spanking Sam, slow, punishing, lingering contact of skin on skin, Sam’s not holding still. And he’s not squirming to get away from the blows. He’s grinding against Dean’s thigh, trying to stimulate the hard-on that Dean can tell isn’t going away any time soon.

He stops his hand from descending again, looks at Sam’s bottom. He’s been over it twice now, and the color is just starting to glow. Sam hasn’t realized yet that Dean’s stopping, and there’s another half-thrust across his lap.

“What are you doing, Sammy?” he asks softly. It’s a question, because he really wants to hear an answer, though he’s not sure Sam will have one. Sam doesn’t like to admit to anything out loud, like saying the words somehow make them irreversible. Dean’s not an idiot, and he knows that it’s not easy for Sam to get spanked. But he also knows that Sam wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want it just as much as Dean did. There have been days before when one of them didn’t rise to the bait, but somehow they always find themselves back in this position.

Sam freezes, but doesn’t respond.

“You know you’re supposed to hold still when I spank you,” Dean reminds him, but there’s no censure in his voice. “And I’m just going to have to spank you harder unless there’s a good reason for it.”

It’s an opening, but Sam would rather swim through molten lava than say anything out loud, and Dean knows it.

“Have it your way, kid,” he says, and starts spanking again, just as hard but faster, with an intensity that has Sam gasping in surprise and wiggling furiously. Dean’s concentrating on the spanking, the way Sam’s ass is going from bright pink to dark pink, and he isn’t sure whether Sam’s squirming is because of the pain or something else. When he arrives at the crease between Sam’s cheeks and his thighs, he renews his energy and Sam lets out an honest-to-God yelp.

“Guns aren’t toys, Sam,” he says, “and you don’t need to be playing around here.”

His hand is starting to sting, because he’s not pacing himself anymore, not thinking about anything but beating Sam’s ass until the kid is crying actual tears. He smacks the sensitized bottom again and again, and the dark pink takes on a reddish tinge. Sam is positively writhing across his lap, like he’s trying to jump out of his tender, aching skin, and it’s almost too much for Dean to handle. His own rod is making itself felt through his jeans, and as long as Sam won’t say anything he doesn’t know what to do but keep going.

“Dean, please!” Sam bursts out, the words tearing from his mouth like they’ve been trying to get loose for a while now. Good. Then before Dean can ask him “please what” he’s fighting to get loose, kicking and trying to roll off Dean’s lap.

Dean catches him with an arm wrapped around his waist at the last minute and spanks extra hard right on the backs of Sam’s thighs. Sam starts crying in earnest then, his body shaking with involuntary shudders, loud gasps for air between the panting sobs. Dean slows back down, and the spanks are more like pats than actual swings now, because his hand is feeling heavy and dead from the repeated motion. He doesn’t think it’ll make much difference to Sam, and it doesn’t. When his brother finally catches his breath he tries again.

“Please, please Dean, please…”

“Please what?” He honestly isn’t sure what Sam means, and he’s not sure Sam knows himself.

And Sam doesn’t answer the question right away. “I’m sorry!” he promises, his voice thick with tears. “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry…”

“For what?” Dean asks, and Sam knows how to answer this one.

“For playing with guns!” He lets out another howl, and Dean stops spanking. He puts his hand at his side, unhooks the other from where it had anchored Sam against his stomach. He doesn’t run his fingers over the burning flesh, lying across his lap. He puts his hands at his side and waits.

It takes Dean a minute to realize that Sam isn't moving, and he's taken aback. "It's over now, kid," he says softly, hoping to get some sort of reaction other than the sobs Sam is still trying to suppress.

"You can get up now." But even as he says it, he can feel the wetness against his leg, seeping through the heavy fabric. Oh... oh.

He decides after a minute that the best strategy is to completely ignore it. He raises one shaking hand, places it between Sam's shoulder blades. The crying is softer now, not racking Sam's body, just quiet, defeated, humiliated tears.

"I'm sorry I had to spank you so hard," Dean says, rubbing his palm across Sam's back, just like nothing happened. "But I only do it so you'll learn, Sam. I only do it so you'll be good."

Sam sniffles, like he's not sure what he's supposed to say to that.

"I do it for you," Dean says, even though he knows damn good and well that it's for both of them.

After a minute Sam slides off his lap, pulls his underwear back up without turning around. His head is facing the ground, and he reaches a cautious hand back to feel his stinging ass. He flinches at the feel of his own fingers, but pulls his jeans up too. He still hasn't looked at Dean.

"I know you probably want to wash your face, get into some clothes without oil all over them," Dean says, ignoring the fact that his own clothes are covered in something white and sticky. "But let's see if we can finish these guns first, okay? Dad's gonna be pissed if he comes home and you haven't gotten them clean." He picks up the bore brush from the table, motions for Sam to sit beside him.

"Okay," Sam says softly. He sits down gingerly, perching on the soft cushions like they'll break if he puts any weight on them. They work quicker together, and they don't say anything. They sit there, side by side on the shabby sofa, polishing guns as the last rays of sunlight glow pink on the window and fade out of sight. Dean can't see the stains on his lap anymore. He can't tell if the color in Sam's cheeks and ears has died down.

When Dean reaches for the last Beretta, Sam sends him a questioning look.

"You can go take a shower now, if you like," Dean says. It's dark outside now, and he ought to turn on a lamp. They've both been ignoring everything but the task at hand. "But don't use up all the hot water, you hear me?"

"Yeah, okay." Sam stands, and Dean cuffs him lightly on the arm.

"You okay?"

"You don't hit _that_ hard, Dean," Sam says scornfully, smiling a little shyly at his older brother.

"Yeah, well, just wait till next time," Dean threatens. Sam doesn't look back as he walks into the bathroom, but he does flip a switch at the door, and the living room is flooded with light.


End file.
